


A Wolf at the Door

by kesdax



Series: ladiesofpoi - Frankie Wells [1]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, LadiesofPOI
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-22
Updated: 2015-04-22
Packaged: 2018-03-25 07:27:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3801904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kesdax/pseuds/kesdax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harper’s kisses feel like a puncture wound, leaving her raw and aching for more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Wolf at the Door

**Author's Note:**

> For the ladiesofpoi challenge in tumblr.  
> Prompt - puncture

It takes Frankie exactly fifteen seconds to decide she likes Lionel Fusco. She can't put her finger on why exactly. Something to do with his good sense of humour and easy going attitude you wouldn't find in most homicide detectives.

Take a look at his partner, for example. John Riley is the exact opposite. He's stiff and serious, like a cop with ten years under his belt would be after seeing body after dead body. But Frankie Wells has been around a lot of cops, on both sides of the law. She knows what they're like, what makes them tick. How to play them. But Detective Riley... he's something else. Frankie doesn't know _what_ exactly, all she knows that despite being a terrible cop, John Riley is a good guy. He stopped her from doing something stupid and, at the end of the day, he didn't arrest her for it.

Which is why she finds herself sitting with her feet propped up on his desk, talking to his partner instead of skipping town like she should. She’s here to say thank you, goodbye. Instead she doesn’t say either of those things. With Detective Riley, she doesn’t need to. He’s not that type of guy that’s especially good with words, giving or receiving them. So he doesn’t mind when Frankie is much the same. She thinks he gets it though. Her gratitude. She would be in jail right now, facing murder charges, if it wasn’t for him. Or, worse, she would be dead in a warehouse by the pier.

So she nods and jokes as she leaves and thinks it might not be so bad running into Johnny Riley again, if she’s ever in town.

Not that she plans on coming to New York again anytime soon, she thinks, as she steps outside of the precinct. It’s far too cold. Snow littering the ground and her breath forming little white clouds. She misses the warmth of the Florida sun, of long walks on the beach. But she was cold long before she even left the sunshine state. Since Deke, Frankie has felt nothing but the icy cold void of loneliness.

“Yo, Biker Barbie.”

Frankie freezes at the voice, one foot on the sidewalk, the other still on the steps. She can feel the cold snow, melting beneath her boots, trying to fight its way through the leather. They’ll be ruined if she’s not careful and she takes a step back as she turns around.

“What do you want?” says Frankie. Athena or Harper or whatever the hell her name is, rests casually with her back against the wall right by the door. She was waiting for her, Frankie realises, and decides she doesn’t have the time for whatever the hell this is. She has a plane to catch. A life to get back to, even if it’s not much of one, it’s still hers.

“Don’t think I’ve forgiven you for the gunfight you dragged me into the middle of,” says Harper, shoving her hands into her pockets to keep them warm.

Frankie rolls her eyes. “Thank your friend Ray for that.” She takes another step away from the precinct, intending to walk away, hail a cab and get the hell out of this ice popsicle of a town, but Harper’s voice has a way of drawing her back in and keeping her close.

“He wasn’t my friend,” Harper explains. “Merely a business transaction.”

“Whatever,” Frankie mutters. This time she does walk away, but Harper only follows her. Frankie can hear her feet crunching in the snow, on the parts of the sidewalk that haven’t been cleared. Frankie tries to avoid them and ends up walking in a random, zig-zag pattern that allows Harper to catch up with her easily. Frankie grits her teeth, ignores her and pretends she hasn’t even seen her. It doesn’t work so well, especially when Harper overtakes her, whips around on her heels until she’s walking backwards right in front of Frankie. Part of Frankie hopes she falls, slips on the ice and lands on her ass. It’s a cruel thought, but Frankie’s tired and cold and doesn’t particularly like Harper Rose anyway.

“Look,” Frankie snaps after a few moments. “If you’re looking for an apology, you can forget it.”

Harper snorts. “Please, like you’re the type.”

Frankie stops short. A crowd has formed around them now and she’s more worried that _she’ll_ slip and fall trying to do two things at once. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, nothing,” says Harper casually. Then she grins; a smile that’s all sharp white teeth. Something almost predatorial.

“Look, whatever,” Frankie says, exhaling in annoyance. “Will you just get the hell out of my way?”

Harper doesn’t move – of course she fucking doesn’t – and that grin of hers only seems to get wider. This is some sort of game, Frankie thinks. One she doesn’t know the rules to, or even what they are playing. _Payback_ , she thinks, for the warehouse. What else could it be?

“I have a flight to catch,” Frankie says impatiently.

“Heading back to Jacksonville?”

“Yeah,” says Frankie. “How did you…”

“I have a friend,” Harper says vaguely. “Seems to think we work well together.”

Frankie lets out a laugh at that. This friend of hers must be delusional, whoever they are.

“Well if you’re ever in Florida,” Frankie says doubtfully. “Do me a favour?”

“What?” says Harper.

“Don’t look me up.”

Harper smirks at that and, this time, she doesn’t get in Frankie’s way as she tries to leave.

*

Six months, a year, and sometimes Frankie can’t even remember what Deke looked like, the sound of his laugh, the way he held onto her tight as if afraid he would lose her if he ever let go. Except he didn’t lose her. She lost _him_.

Ray Pratt sits in a prison cell in upstate New York and, most nights, Frankie can’t stop herself from thinking that it’s not enough. He deserves more punishment than this. He deserves to bleed. To feel the pain that Deke must have felt as the blood poured out of his veins.

Right after, when it was up to her to make arrangements, she couldn’t force herself to get rid of his stuff. She still has most of it now. Some of it she gave away, reluctantly. But the most important parts of him she kept. At the time, and even now sometimes when she allows herself to think about it, she thinks it was so little. His life was his work. His life was _her_ and Frankie knows she isn’t much better.

When they were kids, they only ever had each other. Frankie and Deke against the world. Or, at least, against all the other kids at school. He looked out for her and, in the end, she looked out for him.

She never thought it would end this way. That he would die and leave her alone like this.

But here she is, alone, in her one bedroom on the coast of Neptune Beach. She can see the ocean from her bedroom, listen to the waves at night and dream of Deke in a better place.

He would hate to see her like this, she knows, but the second Ray Pratt was sentenced, the second Frankie lost all purpose, she deflated into nothing. She has her work, which keeps her busy, but bounty hunting leaves a lot of free time when there isn’t a bounty to chase. Time Frankie isn’t sure what to do with. Nothing she does seems to matter. She just doesn’t _care_ about anything anymore.

Well… there is _one_ thing.

He bites and snaps at her feet the minute Frankie gets out of bed and doesn’t calm down until she is on her haunches rubbing behind his ears. The small, grey terrier always did have a stupid face and sometimes Frankie smiles over how much it reminds her of Deke’s. She thinks of that old saying, about pets becoming like their owners. Or perhaps it’s the other way around. Either way, the little dog was left to her, along with everything else Deke owned.

“Ready to go for a run?” Frankie asks and the dog barks eagerly like he understands her. Frankie smiles and shuffles him outside. She doesn’t bother with the lead. The beach is only a short, thirty second walk away and then he’s free to run up and down the sand and at Frankie’s heels. Sometimes he even pushes her pace. One thing is for sure, he never slows her down.

It’s later in the morning than she would normally go, and already the sun beats down, shimmering on the sand and making it sparkle like gold. It’s hotter too and Frankie knows she’s going to break out in a sweat before she’s even ran a few feet today. She doesn’t mind. There’s always the cool ocean to lap at her feet if she needs it.

At this time of year, the beach is free of tourists. Just a few locals, like her, walking their dogs or taking a leisurely stroll. Later, she thinks she should have known. Right now, she’s too occupied with controlling her breathing to notice anything else. It’s not until incessant barking pulls her out of the zone that she realises something’s up and she stops, hands on knees as she doubles over and gasps air into her lungs.

“Alright, Chester, geez,” she mutters. “Would you quit it with the howling.”

But Chester keeps going, as usual, and Frankie rolls her eyes. He almost never gets worked up like this.

“Hey!” calls a voice that Frankie recognises. She hasn’t heard it in months, but the sheer glee it contains ignites her annoyance, and her instinct to just get the hell out of there. Frankie looks up at the only woman sunbathing on the beach. Turquoise blue bikini against dark skin glistening beneath hot rays. Frankie finds herself staring at bare flesh, at ample cleavage that really doesn’t leave much to the imagination, and forces her eyes upwards. Harper Rose’s eyes are masked behind dark sunglasses, the large straw hat plopped onto top of her curls casts her face in shadow, but Frankie can see the small smirk all the same.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” Frankie grumbles.

“Hey, Vanilla Fudge,” says Harper, grinning widely. “You miss me?”

Frankie ignores the nickname and the question and moves over to Chester at Harper’s feet. He’s growling now, visibly agitated and calms only when Frankie rests a hand on his head.

“It’s alright, Chester,” says Frankie calmly. “She annoys me too.”

Harper snorts. “You named your dog _Chester_?”

Frankie scowls. “He’s not my dog,” she mutters. “He’s my brother’s.”

“The dead brother?” says Harper with a frown.

“Yes,” says Frankie sullenly, climbing to her feet. She gathers Chester up into her arms, intending on carrying him home and is surprised – okay, more like annoyed – when Harper gets up too. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve got a job for you,” says Harper, like it should have been obvious. She gathers up her towel and her bag and falls into step beside Frankie. Frankie, for reasons she doesn’t quite understand, let’s her.

“What kind of job?” Frankie asks cautiously. In response, Harper only smirks. Not hindered by a dog in her arms, she easily walks down the beach. A flash of annoyance prompts Frankie to increase her pace when she realises Harper is heading straight for her beach house.

How the hell had she known where she lives? More to the point, how the hell had she known Frankie would be out running on the beach?

_Because I do it every morning_ , Frankie thinks. Good ole regular routine. She should know better. Routines are how you get caught. That’s how most of her bounties have been won; because they failed to deviate from a pattern. Frankie thought she was different, now it turns out she is not. And she thinks, _what would Deke think_? and forces herself not think about him anymore.

She’s not even on solid ground when she decides she is going to send Harper packing. She doesn’t want anything to do with… whatever the hell this is. She likes her quiet life with her dog and living off Deke’s life insurance. (Because who is she kidding, really? She hasn’t accepted a bounty in months and has no intention of doing so anytime soon.)

Frankie is still a few feet behind when Harper steps up to her porch and heads straight for the potted begonia that Frankie reminds herself she hasn’t watered in days. Harper rummages around in the dry soil for a moment until she finds the small silver key.

“You really should be less obvious,” Harper says and lets herself in. Frankie grits her teeth. She hasn’t touched that key in weeks and wonders how the hell Harper even knew it was there. But that’s the least of her problems, she thinks, as Harper makes herself at home.

Dumping her bag and beach hat on Frankie’s couch, Harper makes her way to the kitchen and begins searching through the cupboards. Frankie doesn’t think she has ever met someone so audacious, and she puts Chester on the floor, watching as he toddles off to the couch to sniff at Harpers things before she follows her unexpected and unwanted guest.

“This might be easier if you told me what you were looking for,” Frankie says. She crosses her arms, annoyed when Harper shamelessly opens her refrigerator and helps herself to a beer. Her _last_ beer.

Then she walks straight past Frankie and plops herself on the couch, feet up on the coffee table. Chester growls at her again, no longer interested in her belongings and he doesn’t stop until Frankie shoos him away and glares down at Harper.

Frankie’s nostrils flare and her anger piques when Harper ignores her and turns on the TV, flicking through the channels in search of something she likes.

“You’ve got five seconds to tell me what the hell you’re doing here before I kick you out,” Frankie threatens.

Annoyingly, Harper smirks and takes a sip of her stolen beer.

“I told you,” says Harper, clearly enjoying Frankie’s reaction, “I’ve got a job for you.”

“What job?” Frankie asks through gritted teeth.

Harper shrugs. “Don’t know yet. My friend said he would be in touch.”

“What friend?” Frankie asks suspiciously. She doesn’t like the sound of this at all or why Harper’s so called friend appears to be so interested in her. But Harper never gives her an answer, just swallows down more of her beer and settles down even more comfortably into Frankie’s couch.

Instead of throwing her out like she should, Frankie snaps, “I’m going for a shower,” and hates the way this brings a wolfish grin to Harper’s face, like she’s just won this little dance they’ve been doing.

Frankie takes her frustration out on her skin; turning the shower up until it’s scalding and scrubbing the sweat off her skin so hard it leaves her normally pale flesh red and raw. It does nothing to calm her down and by the time she’s done, dried and dressed in fresh clothes, she’s seething and ready to drag Harper out of her house even if it means doing it at gunpoint.

But Harper is gone from the couch when she comes back in and for one, relief filled, moment, Frankie thinks she’s gone. No such luck. She hears clattering from the kitchen and goes to investigate, finding Harper cooking lunch like this is where she belongs. She’s changed out of her beach wear into tight fitting jeans and a t-shirt, and from behind, Frankie has a good view of the curve of her ass. She shakes her head, remembers she is supposed to be annoyed and clears her throat to get Harper’s attention.

Harper turns, grins, and thrusts a bowl of some sort of stew into Frankie’s hands. “You should eat. It’s going to be a long day.”

Frankie stares and the food distrustfully before glancing up at Harper and watching as she practically devours her own meal, still standing in the middle of her kitchen.

“Fine,” Harper shrugs, “don’t eat. But don’t start whining you’re hungry later either.”

“There won’t be a later,” says Frankie, putting the bowl of food, uneaten, on the counter. “Whatever you’re here for, you can forget it.”

The look Harper gives her is a mixture of condescending and sympathetic.

“Five hundred and twenty-seven,” says Harper cryptically.

“What?” says Frankie.

“That’s how much money you have left in your savings account.”

Frankie freezes, but she can’t deny that sounds about right.

“Barely enough to cover your next rent, let alone bills. Food. And with no work in the horizon…” Harper trails off. Her look is contemplative, but Frankie can tell she’s enjoying herself all the same. “When _was_ the last time you took a bounty? Not since Ray Pratt, right?”

Swallowing, Frankie forces herself to breathe. “How do you know all that?”

“I told you,” says Harper, putting her now empty bowl into the sink. “I have a friend.”

“How does your friend know all this?”

Harper shrugs and it’s then Frankie realises Harper has never actually mentioned the name of this friend.

A phone beeps and it sounds so startling to Frankie in the quiet of her lonely house by the beach. Harper pulls out her phone, glances at it for a moment before putting it away.

“Time to go,” she says.

“Your friend?” Frankie asks. “At least give me a name.”

“Ernest Thornhill,” Harper says after a moment, pushing past Frankie to retrieve her bag from the couch. “But I doubt that’s his real name. Actually, I’m not even sure he’s a he.”

“What?” says Frankie incredulously, barely registering the gun Harper’s checking is loaded and slipping into her waistband. “You’ve never even met this guy?”

Harper shrugs. “He - they - likes to remain in the shadows.”

“So you have no idea who you’re working for?” says Frankie, like this is the dumbest thing she has ever heard. In fact, it _is_ the dumbest thing she has ever heard.

“He’s never steered me wrong yet,” says Harper indifferently. “You have a gun, right?”

Frankie nods absently, more questions on the tip of her tongue. Like how can Harper be sure this Thornhill person can be trusted, what kind of work does she mean? And why, whatever it is, does it require Frankie’s help?

Suspecting she’s probably not going to get a straight answer, Frankie retrieves her gun from the lock box in the bedroom instead of asking. She doesn’t like this, any of it, but she can’t deny that she’s felt more - even if it is mostly irritation - than the anger that’s been burning inside of her since Deke died. Maybe that’s why she finds herself following Harper out of the door without much further protest. She can’t ignore the thrum of excitement pulsing through her veins either, or the way she feels hot under the collar when Harper’s arm brushes against hers as they walk to Frankie’s car.

*

“You want to tell me what we’re doing here?” Frankie asks. She’s not expecting an answer, but they’ve been stuck in Frankie’s old Camaro with the AC on for the better part of four hours now and she’s bored. And hungry, but she refuses to mention that part, already picturing the smug, self-satisfied smirk on Harper’s face that it’s likely to provoke.

“Watching,” says Harper, doing exactly that. The night club they are “watching” isn’t even open yet and Frankie has no idea what it even is they are waiting for. No one has gone in or out the entire time they’ve been sitting here, mostly in stony silence, and Frankie is starting to grow impatient.

From the backseat, Chester lets out a growl that sounds more disgruntled than she feels. Turning around, Frankie stretches between the two front seats, scratching at Chester’s belly until he quiets down.

“Did you have to bring the damn dog?” Harper asks. Out of the corner of her eye, Frankie can see Harper leaning away slightly, a grimace on her face.

Frankie grins. “Not scared of a tiny little dog, are you?”

“No,” says Harper sullenly.

Frankie almost pushes her on it, but there’s movement from the nightclub and Harper is suddenly out of the car, heading towards the back door and the man and his two goons unlocking it.

“Come _on_ ,” Harper says, not bothering to wait for her.

This would be easier, Frankie thinks, if she knew what the hell was going on. But she can’t do much more than follow Harper into the dark, copying her as she pulls her gun out and following Harper’s lead.

The mysterious friend was right, they _do_ work well together. In synchronous harmony, they knock out the two goons following the man in charge. The back hallway is dimly lit and Harper and Frankie are quiet enough to surprise them both. But the loud thud they make as they hit the ground alerts the third man to their presence, and he glances at them over his shoulder, paling visibly before running in the opposite direction and through a door at the other end of the hallway.

“ _Now_ will you tell me what we’re doing?” Frankie asks as they chase after him. In response, Harper flashes her nothing more than a quick grin as she opens the door and follows their prey.

They are in some sort of office. A large wooden desk sits in the middle of the room, with a laptop open and running. The man, uncaring of the intrusion, busily types away and doesn’t even pause when Harper draws her gun out on him.

“Get away from the computer,” she orders and when he doesn’t move, fires off a round just above his head. The bullet, loud and ringing in Frankie’s ears, embedds itself in the wall, piercing the head of a half-naked woman on the poster pinned to it. The loudness of it causes the man to jump and he takes a step back, hands in the air, allowing Harper to close the laptop lid and pick it up with one hand as she keeps her gun pointed at the man with the other.

“You wanted to know what we were doing,” Harper says to Frankie. “Retrieving this.”

“Why?” says Frankie. “What’s so important about a laptop?”

“It’s what’s on it that’s important,” says Harper. “Watch him.”

Frankie points her gun at the man, watching out of the corner of her eye as Harper tucks her gun away. She pulls out a knife, opening the blade and using it to pry open the base of the laptop.

“Or rather,” says Harper and Frankie hears something unclicking, “it’s what’s on this hard drive that’s important.”

It just looks like a mesh of wires and plastic to Frankie and she doesn’t even have time to get a better look at it before Harper is hiding it away in her pocket.

“Open the safe,” Harper says to the man. He does as he’s told, punching in a four digit code and swinging it open. Inside, bundles of hundred dollar bills are stacked together, filling the safe. There must be close to fifty thousand, Frankie thinks, but can’t be sure. Harper tosses a bag at the man and orders him to fill it with the cash. His back turned, he misses the way Harper grins at Frankie and winks.

She’s not sure, but she starts to think this wasn’t part of Thornhill’s plan and her doubts escalate the moment Harper grabs for the bag and her gun goes off. Startled, Frankie doesn’t register what’s happening, until groans of pain fill her ears. She glances at the man, now in a heap in the ground and bleeding from his left shoulder.

“What the hell?” says Frankie, turning angry eyes onto Harper. She’s closer than Frankie was expecting. Too close. And it’s all Frankie can do just to remember how to breathe.

There’s something about Harper’s eyes that are capturing. They are like a trap, luring you in before they snap at you and bite.

Something cool clasps around Frankie’s wrist at the same time as Harper leans into her, pushing her back until she thuds against the wall. Swallowing in anticipation, Frankie licks her lips, eyes on Harper’s mouth and is disappointed when Harper pulls away, a devilish smirk on her face. Frankie tries to follow her as she retreats backwards towards the door, but her right wrist tugs her back. She’s surprised to find herself handcuff to the metal shelf bolted against the wall and she turns angry, accusing eyes on Harper.

“Sorry, babe,” Harper says, “but I don’t share.”

She hugs the bag of money to herself before disappearing out the door.

“Bitch,” Frankie utters under her breath.

*

It’s grown dark outside by the time Harper makes her escape out of the nightclub. Bag of cash in one hand and Thornhill’s hard drive in the other, she heads straight for Frankie’s old Camaro. She managed to swipe the keys at the same as she put on the cuffs and, really, Harper just wants to laugh that Frankie never saw it coming.

She never would have thought that the person who tried to kill Ray Pratt would be so trusting.

But Harper doesn’t even get anywhere near the Camaro before she hears the barking. That fucking dog has had it out for her since the start. Well fuck that, if she’s driving with it in the backseat. She’ll leave it behind along with its owner. And if the fucker tries to bite her… well, she still has her gun.

She takes a careful step towards the car and, if anything, the damn dog just barks more aggressively. Like it _knows._ Which is stupid, Harper thinks, and is more than a little relieved when her phone going off gives her an excuse to take a step back.

It’s Thornhill.

_Go back._

Harper frowns at the message, then glances up and down the street. It’s deserted and she shivers because _how the hell could he know?_

It’s not the first time Thornhill has shown this kind of foresight and guided Harper out of more than one tricky mess. She can’t put her finger on why it freaks her out so much, but it’s almost as if Thornhill can _see_ the step she takes forward and her phone vibrates in her hand again.

_Go back now._

With an eye roll and a sigh, Harper grips the bag of money and goes back towards the club, cursing Frankie Wells and whatever trouble she has just gotten herself into.

_This_ is exactly why she prefers working solo.

*

From experience, Frankie knows Deke’s knife is far too big to pick the lock of the handcuffs, but she tries it anyway, swearing under her breath in frustration when she - unsurprisingly - fails. The desk is way out of her reach, even if there had been a paperclip or something, and the guy with a bullet in his shoulder, after several more quite frankly pathetic whines, has passed out.

This seems to be a recurring thing lately in her life, being handcuffed with no way out, and Frankie decides she doesn’t like it. She also decides that if she ever sees Harper fucking Rose again there’s an ass kicking with her name on it.

She hears a creek at the door and glances up, not knowing what to expect. It’s one of the goons they knocked out earlier, looking decidedly more pissed off. He glances at the unconscious man he was supposed to be protecting, then up at the safe and back at Frankie. Something in his eyes causes Frankie’s grip to tighten on her brother’s knife and then he’s stepping towards her fast, his fists going wild. One hits her in the face, the other in the solar plexus. The impact causes her grip to loosen as she gasps in pain, the knife falling to the ground with a clatter. Frankie wants to fall with it, but her restrained wrist keeps her standing.

“Where’s the money, bitch?”

Frankie spits out blood. “Fuck you.”

For that, she receives a punch in the nose. The pain is as sharp as the crack of her bones breaking and Frankie has honestly never felt so alive. It makes her laugh that, after everything, it’s getting the shit beat out of her that makes her realise life is worth living.

The same question gets asked again and again and each time, Frankie is defiant, takes her punishment with a grin. It must look deranged with the blood covering her face but she doesn’t care.

In fact, she thinks she’s going to die here.

She wonders about Chester. Maybe Harper will take care of him. Or at least someone will find him locked in her Camaro before the sun rises in the morning.

But she doesn’t die and neither does Chester.

A voice sounds at the door, but Frankie can’t make it out through the rush of blood in her ears. Something loud and then suddenly she isn’t being hit anymore. Her body still throbs though, her wrist stinging from where the cuffs have dug in, holding all her weight up and she closes her eyes. She doesn’t want to be here anymore and imagines Deke. That stupid grin on his face.

Arms lift her up and it’s not until her right arm falls uselessly to her side that she realises the cuffs have been taken off. Someone holds her up. Someone strong yet soft, smelling of gunpowder and the ocean.

Frankie mutters something incoherently.

A voice whispers in her ear, “Jesus, Blondie. What a mess.” And it’s the last thing Frankie hears before the world goes dark.

*

She wakes up to familiar surroundings, body aching in places she didn’t even know she had and still covered in blood. Her shirt is ruined. Jeans too, probably. But at least someone had the foresight to put a towel down on the couch before dumping her there so that wouldn’t get ruined too.

“Someone” happens to be lounging on the other chair, stuffing her face with Frankie’s food, drinking Frankie’s beer and watching Frankie’s TV.

Harper Rose smirks from behind her beer bottle, eyes still on the TV as she speaks. “How you doin’, Butterbean?”

Frankie sits up. The world spins and she groans, lying back down with a hand at her temple, the other at her side where a sharp jabbing pain has started, more noticeable than the rest of her protesting body.

“I’ve been better,” Frankie mumbles.

“Well,” says Harper and Frankie can hear her slurp down more beer and the sound of the near empty bottle thudding as it’s placed on the coffee table, “you’d be worse if it wasn’t for me.”

Frankie’s eyes snap open at that and, uncaring of the pain, she sits up. All the better to give Harper her darkest glare.

“It’s your damn fault I was handcuffed to a shelf,” Frankie complains angrily.

Harper just shrugs at her. “I came back, didn’t I? Stop whining.”

But Frankie wants to do more than whine. She wants to give Harper the ass kicking she deserves. If she was in any fit state, she’d be doing it right now and, most definitely winning.

“I don’t know what you’re complaining for anyway,” Harper continues. “It’s not like anything is broken.”

Frankie’s cheeks burn at the thought of how Harper’s hands must have roamed her body in search of broken bones and swallows away the dryness in her mouth.

“Well apart from your nose,” Harper says airily, taking a final bite of her meal - that same stew thing from before - and dumping the empty bowl on the floor. “But I fixed that right up.”

At that, Frankie’s eyes narrow and it takes a moment for her brain to register Harper’s words. Then she’s up off the couch, heedless of the pain as she makes her way into the bathroom.

The fluorescent lights are too bright, and she likes to think they make her look worse than she is, standing in front of the mirror, covered in dried blood. Her hair is a riot too, half out of the ponytail she hastily arranged it into before they left on their little mission. Despite the blood, her nose looks like it always did, just a little more sore. Just more pain to add to the rest of it.

At least this time it’s physical and the blood and the bruises burn on her skin like a scar, reminding her she’s still alive. Not like Deke who will never bruise or bleed or feel pain ever again.

Maybe he is better off, wherever he is. No one should have to suffer this, she thinks and reaches up to pull her shirt off. Pain immediately flashes across her side. Harper said no broken bones, but she thinks she might have a couple of bruised ribs.

There’s a chuckle behind her and Frankie looks into the mirror, glaring at Harper’s reflection.

“Need some help with that?” Harper asks, gesturing to Frankie’s bloodstained shirt. Frankie eyes her for a moment, reluctant to accept help from the woman who put her in this mess in the first place. But she doesn’t exactly have a lot of options. So she nods her head slightly and turns around, lifts her arms up as far as they’ll go without causing any pain. Harper steps closer and Frankie can feel her skin, warm where it brushes against hers as she helps Frankie remove her shirt. There’s that whiff of gunpowder again and something almost like lavender that Frankie realises, with a glower, is her shampoo.

Harper certainly made herself right at home while Frankie was unconscious. Again.

Shirt off, Harper holds it in her hands for a moment, staring down at the blood. “I don’t think that’s gonna come out.”

“Whatever,” Frankie mutters. Embarrassingly aware that she is standing half naked and covered in blood while Harper remains fully clothed, Frankie snatches the shirt back and turns to toss it in the trash can underneath the sink. When she straightens, she’s sure she catches Harper in the mirror staring at her. No, not staring. _Checking her out._

She tries not to smirk, fails, and busies herself with examining her body. Apart from the blood, she’s not too bad. There’s barely even a bruise forming on her skin yet, but by tomorrow she has no doubt her tender ribs will make themselves known.

“You should clean the blood off,” Harper says, an odd lilt to her voice. She avoids Frankie’s gaze, running a washcloth under the faucet before taking a step closer to Frankie once again. She’s surprisingly gentle as she rubs the blood away; one hand on Frankie’s chin to hold her in place while the other works. Frankie finds herself staring at her nose, her eyelashes, the mess of hair exploding out of her head. Even the space just past her left shoulder. Anywhere but at her mouth. Her eyes are drawn there anyway, watching as they part slightly when Harper concentrates. She can feel Harper’s warm breath on her cheek, but a shiver runs up her spine all the same.

It’s been awhile, since Frankie was this close to another person, and her treacherous body – skin blushing and mouth going dry, heat burning between her legs – serves as an unwitting reminder of just how long it’s been.

When Harper’s done, her hands still on Frankie’s face like she’s forgotten what to do next. Maybe it’s been awhile for her too.

“See something you like?” Harper asks and Frankie realises her eyes have wandered downwards to the swell of Harper’s cleavage just above the low-cut shirt - which Frankie also just realises is actually _hers_ \- and quickly snaps them back up. Harper’s gaze isn’t nearly as confident as it usually is and she abruptly drops her hands, as if only just becoming aware that she is still touching Frankie.

“You know,” says Frankie, and somehow sounds more confident than she actually feels, “I kind of hate you.”

“The feeling’s mutual, babe.” Harper grins, something sharp and bright, and leans forward like she’s coming in for the kill. And she may as well have - killed her, that is - given the way Harper’s lips against hers make her feel.

Harper’s kisses feel like a puncture wound, leaving her raw and aching for more. Her tongue slips inside Frankie’s mouth and it feels like Harper is invading all of her senses at once. She feels her back pressed against the cold tiled wall and shivers from the warm touch of Harper’s hands on her hips, fingers meeting the bare flesh of her waist.

She’s at a significant disadvantage in only her jeans and bra, but when she reaches out for the hem of Harper’s shirt her hands are batted away. Harper smirks against her mouth, one hand going for the button of Frankie’s pants and unclasping it with ease.

Frankie pulls away to step out of her jeans as Harper pushes them down her thighs. “I’m totally topping, by the way.”

Harper exhales air in a laugh. “You’re so not,” she says and grips Frankie tightly by the hips once again to guide her into the bedroom.

She’d be affronted - she has many reasons to, after all, what with getting her ass kicked and Harper going through her shit like she owns the place - but Frankie finds she doesn’t care all that much. Not with the way Harper’s teeth bite her bottom lip, the way she ducks her head to kiss and bite and suck at the tender flesh of Frankie’s neck.

The back of her legs hit the bed and Frankie’s going down, pulling Harper with her. This time, when Frankie reaches to pull Harper’s t-shirt off, she lets her and it’s not long before they are both naked, hot and sweating on Frankie’s bed.

Harper’s tongue swirls around Frankie’s left nipple until it’s hard and sore and Frankie has to suppress the moan building up in the back of her throat. Her hips buck, her body wanting some desperately needed release, but Harper’s hands are too busy holding Frankie’s arms above her head. She can feel her body protesting, but the pain only serves to further her arousal and she’s disgusted at herself for how wet she is, can already anticipate the smugness on Harper’s face.

“Have you ever done this before?” Harper asks. Her teeth are at Frankie’s neck again and the question vibrates through her skin.

Frankie groans, for more than one reason. “Please tell me you’re not one of those people that talks during sex.”

Harper nips at her skin with her teeth in response. “Have you?”

“Had sex?” says Frankie flatly. “Yes.”

“I meant with another woman,” says Harper, pulling away, annoyed, and finally letting go of Frankie’s wrists.

“Once or twice,” says Frankie. Not that she’s been keeping count. “Why?” she says suddenly, grinning widely. “Have you not?”

Harper averts her gaze and Frankie can’t help the laugh that escapes her lips now that the tables have been turned, now that she has the advantage for once. The sound of it irks Harper into moving.

“Well I don’t hear you complaining about my technique,” Harper says and pushes two fingers inside of her.

Frankie’s laugh cuts off with a gasp at the new sensation, her muscles tightening around Harper’s fingers. The sensitive flesh burns as Harper’s thumb circles her clit, eliciting a moan from Frankie’s mouth. Harper’s smug now that she’s managed to shut her up, but Frankie finds she doesn’t care one bit. She can easily wipe it away though, and lifts up her leg, rubbing her thigh against Harper’s slick heat.

Groaning into her mouth, Harper picks up her pace; her fingers moving fast in a rhythm that matches the grinding of her pelvis against Frankie’s thigh. Harper’s not one for foreplay or teasing, she gets right to the point, blunt as she is with everything else in life. Frankie shouldn’t be surprised that she comes so quickly, that her orgasm courses through her body like an inferno. Every nerve ending is on fire and she grips Harper’s back, digging her nails in deep and hopes she leaves a mark as tender as the bruises Frankie will have in the morning.

Harper comes not long after her, muttering something incoherent into the crevice between Frankie’s neck and shoulder. It tickles Frankie’s skin and she shivers, breathing heavily. She’s exhausted and remembers she doesn’t know how much time has passed since she passed out in the nightclub and Harper dragged her out to safety. And, despite still aching all over, even more so now after recent activities, Frankie feels her eyes shutting with a heaviness she can’t control.

*

When Frankie wakes, it’s to the sound of waves thrashing against the shore and a throbbing head. She wishes she could sleep for a hundred year and thinks she really should have seen it coming.

The other side of the bed is empty, long since cold, and when she tries to sit up, her wrist pulls her back.

Harper Rose and her fucking handcuffs.

At least this time she’s within easy reach of an escape. The bobby pin on her nightstand is just out of reach of her fingers and she has to stretch a little, straining at her bruised ribs to reach it. A relieved sigh leaves her lips as her fingertips brush against cool metal and it doesn’t take her long to pick the lock and free her wrist.

It was the left one this time, and it doesn’t quite have the same swollen red bracelet that the other one left. Still, she’s pissed and, judging by the time, she figures Harper’s been gone at least an hour.

She pulls on some clothes and heads to her living room, finding the bloody towel still on the couch and Harper’s dirty dishes on the floor where she left them. Shoving the ruined towel out of the way, Frankie takes a seat on the edge of the couch. She feels like shit. More than a person should after a night of sex. But, then again, she did get the shit beat out of her too.

Chester whines from his bed and trots over to her feet, staring up at her expectantly. She had forgotten all about him and is glad he seems okay. She pats the seat beside her and he hops up, resting his head on her lap so she can rub him behind the years. Something about the weight and the warmth of him makes her instantly feel better and she sits there for who knows how long before the sound of a phone ringing snaps her out of her haze of thoughts.

She finds her phone amongst the couch cushions. It must have fallen between them while she lay here passed out. The number’s unknown, but she thinks she knows who it is before she even answers.

“Hey, Frankie Babe.”

Harper’s voice is loud and cheery, making Frankie grimace as it drills through her head.

“Half that money is mine, you bitch,” Frankie hisses, but her bad mood doesn’t seem to deter Harper in the slightest.

“I told you, babe,” says Harper. “I don’t share. And I only work with cash.”

Frankie frowns at that.

“Check your savings account,” Harper continues. “My friend will set you right.”

“Whatever,” Frankie mutters, sick of Harper’s voice. Sick of this so-called “friend” that got her into this mess. “The next time I see you, I’m kicking your ass.”

Harper laughs. “Sounds like fun.”

Frankie grits her teeth, wondering why the hell she ever let someone so annoying into her house let alone her bed.

“Oh, and by the way,” says Harper. “I borrowed your car.”

With that parting note, she hangs up, leaving Frankie staring angrily down at her phone, tempted to throw it against the wall to let her rage out. It goes off again before she can. A text message. Unknown number. But, this time, she doesn’t think it’s Harper.

It’s a statement for her savings account for a recent deposit. Frankie stares down at the number uncomprehendingly. Far more zeros than she has ever had. It’s enough to live off for a year, and way more payment for a job stealing one tiny little hard drive.

The catch comes through a few seconds later. A name and an address.

Ernest Thornhill has taken it upon himself to seek out her services and, if she’s honest, Frankie’s not sure how she feels about it.

The idea of working for someone she has never met, who likes to remain hidden in the shadows, doesn’t sit well with her. But she can’t deny that in the past day, despite Harper Rose being a huge ginormous pain in her ass, she’s had more fun, felt more excitement, been more alive than she has been in the longest time.

Which is why, several days later, Frankie finds herself accepting her second job from Ernest Thornhill. And it takes her several more days to realise that, when she thinks about Deke, it doesn’t hurt quite so much as it used to.

 


End file.
